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He looked at his tattoo. It was old and just a reminder of his misspent youth now. “It’s nothing.”
“It is not nothing. This scar from when Maby and I crashed our bikes together at twelve is nothing.” She pointed to a jagged white line on her arm.
“I got it when I was eighteen, and my band got signed to a record contract.” It wasn’t something he even thought about anymore, but once, it had been a dream come true.
“What the fuck?! You were in a band? What did you play? Tambourine. I can see you just tapping away,” she said as she pretended to play a tambourine, just like she had on stage during karaoke. It made him laugh; she made him laugh.
“Bass,” he informed her. Definitely not tambourine.
“I would have played tambourine. Do you have a record with you on it?” she asked with interest.
“Yes, one, but I’m not letting you listen until we’re married.”
“Grunge band, huh? That’s a turn-off.” She wrinkled her nose.
He grinned. “Rock ‘n’ roll.”
She snapped her fingers. “Shoot, I was hoping for a boy band. I could use me some used-up boy band member.”
Leaning onto the counter, he asked, “What kind of band would you play your tambourine in?”
“’70s pop, for sure. Tambourines fit right in there. Can you play guitar?” she asked, more interested in him than herself.
“Bass is a guitar, so yes,” he answered, wondering how she didn’t know that. But then again, maybe not everyone knew that.
“I always wanted to learn guitar. I mean, I play air guitar with my magic fingers, but I never got to play the real thing.” She pretended to play the guitar.
“No band in your school?”
“I couldn’t be in band.” Her smile faded. “There was a test you had to pass to get in, and I never passed it.”
“But at least you have your air guitar skills.” Talk of school always made her stop smiling.
“You can’t take that away,” she agreed. “Supper’s ready.”
Turning, he pulled it out of the oven. Tonight was prime rib and mashed potatoes with carrots in a sauce on the side. Setting it down, he couldn’t believe her sisters had created this meal.
“Which one of those three can cook like this? But please tell them that don’t have to cook for us. I can order in stuff.” He slid a plate to her and handed her silverware.
“There are meals for the whole week in the fridge. Maby brought them this morning,” she said, and he remembered the box her sister brought in with her.
He took his first bite. “Wow, will they all be this good?”
“Yep. Harper is a great chef. She can make anything.” She spun her fork in the potatoes but didn’t take a bite, just played.
He looked up at her in surprise. “Harper made these?”
“Yes, nobody else cooks.” She didn’t stop playing with her food.
“But you. You used to help her cook.” He remembered her telling him that.
“That’s true. She is a chef, though, and I’m just a cook.” She finally took a bite of the potatoes.
“I can’t wait to taste something you made. Is this Harper’s way of asking for forgiveness?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe Mom just is making her do it.” She set down her fork. It seemed that she wasn’t so hungry after talking about her sister.
“I don’t think so. She would be here if I hadn’t told her she wasn’t allowed to be here,” he replied, hoping it was true. The rift hurt Lucy’s feelings. “If she’s going to keep feeding my family, you should tell her that Amelia is allergic to nuts and doesn’t drink cow’s milk.”
